Thomas Lennard, Lord Dacre, Earl of Sussex, was a prim aristocrat with very stately prejudices against fashionable horse-play. Moreover, he had one of those jealous and egotistical temperaments that persuades a man to believe that the woman whom he had honored with marriage should henceforth sit meekly at his feet—and play the mirror to his majesty. He stood on the threshold, watching the whirligig of youth with the cold wrath of a man who had come with the full expectation of being offended. And to add to the irony of the moment, my Lady Anne came doubling down the room in close pursuit of a couple of men. She made her capture not three yards from her husband’s person, and made it gamely—with both arms round the neck of Sir Marmaduke Thibthorp of the thin shanks. She whipped off the bandage with a breathless laugh. “Gemini—but it’s Duke Thibthorp!” The gallant, whose back was toward the door, offered a mouth, and caught his captor by the wrists. “Forfeit, forfeit! A pledge—!” Sudden silence had fallen on the room, to be followed by indiscriminate and half-smothered giggling. My Lady Dacre’s face betrayed blank consternation. “Let me go—” “Not for—” “Let me go, fool.” He of the thin shanks imagined that he was amusing the salon with his waggery till a hand fastened upon his collar. Tom Temple, still blissfully blind, came careering along one wall, and added emphasis to the climax by coming down with a crash over a three-legged stool. “I shall deem it a curtesy, sir, if you will release Lady Dacre’s wrists.” Thomas Lennard’s face had the cold fury of a blizzard. Yet he was utterly polite. The gallant whom he had taken by the collar had twisted round, and was staring with ludicrous vacuity into my lord’s eyes. Stephen Gore watched the drama with an expression of angelic satisfaction. “Hortense, my friend, let me see you stop a quarrel.” She had moved forward from the window with all the atmosphere of the Sun King’s court. “Pardon me, my lord. Your hand should be at my throat—if—you are offended.” The husband still had a firm hold of Marmaduke Thibthorp, and was looking at him as though undecided whether it would be dignified to drop the fop down the stairs. The aristocratic apathy in him triumphed. He swept the youth aside, and with a curt bow to his wife, offered her his arm. “Come. Madam, I wish you a boisterous evening.” His young wife had hesitated, with a whimsical grimace in the direction of Hortense. “Oh, what a sermon!” The Italian’s eyes met those of Lord Dacre. It was as though they challenged each other in their influence over the child. “If my Lord Dacre will stay with us, I myself will put on the scarf. And perhaps my Lord Gore—here—” The leviathan bowed. “I will flounder—most biblically.” The Lady Anne giggled, and then glanced furtively at her husband’s face. “A thousand thanks. My Lord Gore should delight even the psalmist. But my coach is waiting. I wish you no broken furniture. Anne—come.”